Finding the Green within the Grey

It’s an Inside Job

A few years ago, I used to make lists of friends. Sometimes I would make circles too, signifying layers of friendships. I was teaching myself boundaries. I was teaching myself who to trust. I was learning that even though I want to pop my mouth and spill my deepest darkest secrets to everyone I met that this wasn’t a good idea.

I still spill much of my life to everyone I meet. But I no longer expect something in return from every person I meet.

Sometimes I want to take the time to make a friendship list again. But I no longer need to. Heck, I don’t even want to write the story down of how I got to a place where I had to make lists of who I loved and who loved me back. Or who loved me with all of their faculties running smoothly enough so that they didn’t take me out with one fell swoop of their tongue.

Oh, I am a delicate flower and I want the world to love me back fiercely. I fiercely love the world. Its oranges and light reds and spring greens. The two white birds I saw above my paddle board that flew together and apart, together and apart. I was in such a state of bliss that I wondered if the birds were even real. I want to show these birds to everyone I meet the way that I want to show my soul to them too.

Psychologists might tell me this is a bad idea. Not that love is bad, but my attachment to people’s responses makes interactions tricky. But maybe it’s as simple as this. I visited one of my oldest friends last week and she noted that I often put myself down. To be specific, I put my looks down. In a very vulnerable way, I told her that recently I realized that when I look in the mirror I often am surprised at who I see in that mirror. Yes, it’s the same 45-year-old face that I know very well, but part of me still yearns for sculpted cheekbones and thick, thick hair. I don’t look like a model.

She pointed out that she loves my face because it is mine. And later, when I made fun of my hair, she noted that these rips make other people uncomfortable and for someone who preaches that people should love themselves, well, I’m not loving myself.

Her words hurt, and maybe I wanted her words to be softer and accompanied by chocolate. But this is exactly why I have trouble with relationships. I want other people to adore me because although often I love myself and like myself, sometimes I completely fail on this task and I hate myself. Out loud, in front of other people. I want people to soothe me and make it all better.

But that’s not their job. I’m an adult (groan), so it’s my job to love myself. I get to love myself fiercely, the way I love my girls. They are perfect. I am perfect. My red face, my broad face, my brown age spots and vivid blue eyes, my happy stomach and aching sciatica. My loud voice and out-of-tune singing. I could go on and on, but I’m sure you get it. I need to make friends with myself. I need to love all the parts of me the way my good friends and my husband and my kids do. And I don’t need to make a list of friends and make circles to show me the ones who are best at this job. I don’t need to hire outside of myself. This is an inside job. The only person on this list is me.

Next time I look in the mirror and wish I looked like someone else, what should I say? This is me. Hello. Welcome. I’ll say what I learned in a class with my eldest daughter: Hello fabulous body. Thanks for working for me today, for being strong and awesome. Then when I go out in the world I won’t be asking people to love me every time I open my mouth. Thank god. I think I’ll want to leave my house more often now.

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Nancy Schatz Alton

I used to ride the playground ponies — painted metal creature swings behind my childhood home — and dream of a book with my name on it: Nancy Schatz. Years later, I walked that same playground and young girl asked me my age. Maybe I was 19. Shocked, she asked if I was married. Nope, not yet, I laughed in reply.

Now I’m married and my body’s pretty close to being 50 years old. My first dream came true with one minor adjustment. The name on the cover of those books is “Nancy Schatz Alton.” I think it took writing these two holistic healthcare guides — The Healthy Back Book and The Healthy Knees Book — to believe I really am a writer. But I’ve been a writer before I could pencil the alphabet on the itchy lined paper in Kindergarten. It’s just who I am.

I wear many other definitions. I’m lucky enough to be a mom to a teenager and a tween. I’m a freelance writer, editor and writing teacher and coach, too. I’m a baker and a short-order cook, an off-key singer and car dancer. I’m a former long distance runner, an avid reader and a lover of color. I’m also a spy, because writers are spies, right?

This blog was born a few years ago when I finally got tired of denying myself the privilege of having a blog. I love sharing my words, and if these thoughts can help someone else, even better. As this blog has evolved, some of what I have written is part of a memoir manuscript entitled “But Still and Yet: Navigating the Learning Differences World with My Daughter.” That’s the tale of being and becoming a mother. No, it’s not the story of my first child’s birth and how I stepped into this new role, although there are many fine books about this very topic. This memoir is about learning to embrace the idea that life doesn’t always get to be easy for our offspring. If you aren’t a parent, the journey I take is the same journey all humans take during this lifetime. This memoir answers this question: how do we crack ourselves open to become our best possible selves?

Boom. Enjoy my blog. Say hello via a comment if you have can. And Welcome to Within The Words, Finding the Green within the Grey,.

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